


Kaid

by Domimagetrix



Series: Djinnbound [3]
Category: No Fandom
Genre: Brief Mention of Blood, Dom/sub Undertones, Flirting, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Mind Manipulation, Multi, Rough Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-01
Updated: 2019-01-01
Packaged: 2019-10-02 10:18:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17262449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Domimagetrix/pseuds/Domimagetrix
Summary: The first in a series of five fics, a sub-section of the overall Djinnbound project, with each focusing one of the prominent agents employed by the Protectorate: Kaid Ir-Dal, Attria Mir-Nas, Trast Ma-Hir, Perdik Rhann, and Rech Sodess. Varies from Porn with Plot to light fluff.Agent Kaid Ir-Dal receives a visitor in his mind. Then another in his shower.





	Kaid

Kaid opened his eyes. He inhaled, clutching the edge of the bed and puncturing both sheet and mattress with his claws. Taking in air felt too new, too fresh, the rise of energy owed more to replenishing oxygen than the surge of adrenaline that’d followed him out of sleep.

He’d been holding his breath. That it was all he’d done was nothing short of miraculous.

_A dream. All it was. Too many stimulant-sticks. I need to cut back._

A lie dismissed as quickly as it’d formed. He’d spent far too many years influencing others’ mental perceptions to mistake an illusory projection for anything but what it was. The memories were too crisp, too linear, and absent the sense of distance from reality common to dreams. There’d been sounds, voice, and none of Kaid’s dreams had ever involved either.

He’d been influenced.

The feeling might haunt him to his grave.

The mystery, the damning thing, was that the one he’d met wasn’t an illusionist. Or a druja of any stripe.

Or, perhaps, the bigger mystery was the fact that he’d been asleep. The unconscious mind wasn’t as readily malleable to outside influence. It was why interrogation subjects were never questioned unless they were awake. It could be done, and had been done, but intrusions into the unconscious carried too high a chance of permanent damage, and even the Protectorate had abandoned the practice two centuries ago. His visitor had risked Kaid’s life to send the message.

Weight shifted behind him and Kaid turned, watching the form beneath the covers for signs of wakefulness. He pried his claws out of the bedding while keeping an eye on his bed companion.

A minute passed. Another.

Nothing but faint sounds that flirted with snoring and never quite committed.

Pressure built again in Kaid’s chest. He opened his mouth, drawing in air as silently as he could, reminding himself to breathe.

Still nothing from the vague djinn-shaped lump curled next to him. Kaid moved, sitting up, and ran a hand over the splay of brown hair that wasn’t hidden beneath the blanket. The man who’d accompanied him home last night seemed thoroughly asleep, and Kaid felt no small gratitude for it.

Moving carefully from beneath the comforter and standing, he felt the light pull of sweat-adhered hair on the back of his neck. He drew a hand beneath the wet mass and lifted enough to give it slack. Cool air slid in where the hair had lain and left a grimy, salt-grit feeling behind.

He wanted a shower. And to think.

Padding to the bathroom was a recollection event offered in reverse sequence - cloth strips which had impeded roving hands and beseeching eyes lay discarded by the nightstand, underwear a little farther away. Closer to the bedroom’s doorway, more clothes lay in deflated little heaps like shed reptile skin. To any who hadn’t been present the night before, it looked like the natural progression of two people on the way to bed - perhaps with a few touches and the beginnings of foreplay before reaching their destination - rather than sex begun at the front door and led roughly toward Kaid’s sleeping quarters by the hair.

Despite the remnants of the not-dream, he felt a stir of want at the memory.

Kaid reached the bathroom and moved his hand into the shower cubicle beyond the curtain, fiddling with knobs until the streams of water felt warm enough to relieve the chill. He stepped inside, resting his palms on the tile, and let the pressure jets work into aching shoulders and well-exercised muscles.

He had to remember. Everything. No detail was unimportant.

He inclined himself until his forehead had joined his palms against the tile, and closed his eyes.

Relaxed the mental muscle.

Breathed. Let go the insistence that the water, the humidity building in the stall, and the stall itself were real.

Drew from memory.

And began to build.

 

……….

 

Dust moved in serpentine layers across the landscape, irregular but nearly rhythmic, a suggestive outline of waves across stone. It slid into the wind in almost-transparent streamers from the tops of broken ruins, leavings of a city that’d been spaciously arranged even when new, open in a way that attached “pavilion” to it in Kaid’s mind. Many buildings had been constructed mostly or entirely of the same dark stone upon which they rested; though advanced age or disaster had stolen much, what remained looked sturdy enough to weather a new era, a new cataclysm, or both.

Rich, murky fuchsia peered balefully through black clouds above. Toothless thunder rolled through the ruins and into the blasted-looking plains beyond them, an angry sound of air deprived of moisture. Whatever light filtered through the clouds seemed diseased and ominous, not the offerings of a healthy star but the polluted glow of a hastily, cheaply-made counterfeit.

It looked like the end of a world. The air smelled lifeless, hot, metallic.

And there were tornadoes everywhere.

They were narrow, small, none of them reaching the grim cloud cover above but storms in miniature, the tallest perhaps five times Kaid’s height, the average closer to three. He estimated their width to be just a fraction more than that of his own frame at their most robust. The whirling oddities were colored by more than they could’ve reasonably obtained from the diaphanous sheer at their touchdown points, improbably opaque with mystery detritus as they moved across stone and ruined plains.

Kaid felt a kind of despondency overtake him at the sight of them, but no sense of danger. They were too small, too lacking in a real tornado’s vehemence to promise harm. None scattered or burned themselves out against the walls of the ruins; instead, they seemed almost to sense their nearness and change direction like homeless turned away from once-promising doorsteps. Fatigued. Resigned.

He stood below one of the few overhangs that’d survived the city’s ruination, the view granted him courtesy of his placement on a terrace on the second level of the building, his back to a wall but not touching it. From his left - somewhere “inside” so much as “inside” mattered in this place - a deep voice echoed in tone everything Kaid felt.

“It needn’t ever have been this way. This was a place of great pride.”

Kaid turned.

And beheld beauty itself.

The other man’s robe, warm maroon fabric cut into artful strips over his chest that left gentle parallelograms of that chest open to view, looked more suited to the environment than Kaid’s own-

Kaid looked down, for the first time noticing - and feeling - his nudity. He looked back up at the newcomer with the beginnings of apology.

The newcomer’s silver-streaked, trim beard moved with a gentle smile that reached his red eyes. He lifted his hand and held it palm-out. “No need. I should’ve seen to this before bringing you here.”

The visitor head turned to the side, gaze growing unfocused and hair as black as Kaid’s own shifting lazily with the movement. A few seconds passed, and the man’s attention returned to Kaid. “A shame to cover you up, but with new ages come new standards.”

Another downward glance revealed a robe not dissimilar to his benefactor’s own. It bore no artful windows but the maroon was the same, and both sported a teardrop-in-circle symbol where a breast pocket might’ve sat on a jacket.

Kaid had seen the symbol before. Had it been embedded in the interlocking triangles sported by all government insignia and double-outlined, it would’ve been the palis Camarilla’s own symbol, but it lacked both.

This one was unembellished. Simpler. Older.

 _Much_ older.

Despite the heat and his new attire, Kaid felt cold. “The museums won’t appreciate your theft.” He nearly mentioned being an agent of the Protectorate but held his tongue.

The other man laughed, warm and genuine. “I’ve seen evidences of my past in your museums.” He rested his shoulder against the wall, an easy posture that seemed at odds with the fullness of voice and the regal way he carried himself otherwise. “Hardly theft since I’m the reason those displays exist in the first place.”

Kaid felt himself begin to mirror the other’s lean and stopped himself. “You expect me to believe you’re a historian?”

“You don’t strike me as a man who lies to himself often, Kaid.” The newcomer straightened, coming closer to Kaid, and rested a hand on the latter’s shoulder. He applied just enough pressure to suggest a turn, and Kaid allowed it, facing the blasted lands again.

Now the other’s voice came from behind him, near his ear. “Pretty symbolism only. The tornadoes are my brother’s work, or lack thereof. Ruination was his legacy. It was never mine.”

“Both had blood on their hands.”

“So we did.”

The ruins became difficult to focus on, warping and changing. The grim, sickly light gave way to real sunlight, the sky green overhead and transitioning to blue along the horizon. Plants and trees filled the wasteland, crumbling walls became buildings entire, and light marble rose to frame shallow, turquoise waterways along the walking paths.

In seconds, the hellscape had disappeared, and paradise stood in its place.

“It was never for nought.”

Kaid blinked into the new brilliance, taking in tropical trees and bright awnings. It was as open as the ruins had suggested, the streets wide enough for large clusters of pedestrians to pass each other without streamlining their group profiles. The air was no longer bare or metallic but sun-warmed and slightly humid. People spoke in lightly trilling syllables, a language so unfamiliar that he couldn’t even begin to guess at common roots between it and those he knew. Awning fabric flapped cheerfully in a breeze that brought with it the smells of food and easy living.

Kaid found his voice again. “You expect me to believe you’re old enough to have seen this.”

The man behind Kaid agreed with him, light puffs of breath stirring hair near the latter’s ear. “I don’t expect you to believe anything, Kaid.”

The hand on Kaid’s shoulder remained, and a thumb stroked along his neck. Its owner’s voice still held power and magnanimity. “I’m only asking you to keep an open mind. Give me the chance to show you what could be. In person, just a conversation between you and I. No guardsmen of the modern age, no weapons.”

Kaid fought the urge to lean into the hand. “There are more important members of the modern age than I am. I’m not a good power play.”

The other man ignored him. “There’s a little outdoor restaurant a few streets away from your office. Tea artisans, I think. I’ll be there tomorrow afternoon.”

_My office?_

He’d been researched. It was unlikely this man had uncovered anything of which even the Protectorate remained ignorant, but knowing he’d drawn anyone’s focus didn’t sit still in his mind. One was a system that could be learned, its mechanisms circumvented.

An individual, on the other hand...

_Just some minor Underground boss playing rumor to his advantage._

He didn’t believe that, either.

Kaid tried - and failed - to keep his thoughts out of his voice. “And what name should I ask of the waiter? If you’re looking to keep a low profile, I can’t exactly ask for the Mārijin-”

“Shh.” The hand on his shoulder turned him back to face his visitor.

Red palisadi eyes searched Kaid’s. There was a long, considering weight to their inspection.

His companion leaned in, speaking in Kaid’s ear. “I should be seated somewhere visible. If that’s not possible…”

Lips grazed Kaid’s cheek and paused, then pressed with a kiss. They drew away too slowly, too intimately, and the same richly erubescent gaze trained on him again.

“Menar.”

Sun, sound, and heat of many kinds fell prey to darkness.

Kaid slept.

 

………

“Mmm. Need help working out those kinks?”

Kaid opened his eyes and turned his head, taking in the lithe form of the ifrit dancer who’d been curled into an anonymous lump beneath the blanket earlier. His brown, shaggy hair was still pillow-mussed, but his spritely orange eyes were alight with mischief as he joined Kaid under the hot spray.

Turning, Kaid leaned back against the tiles, and beckoned the other closer still. “Kinks and aches aren’t a problem anymore, I’m afraid.”

“Shame.” The ifrit put on a sulky face but stepped forward. “I’ve got wonderful methods for working out stiffness.”

Kaid struggled to remember his companion’s name. He knew there’d been introductions at the bar, and that neither of them sought anything beyond a night with each other, but an unexpected insistence that he recall that particular detail rose within him.

Water began tamping down the rumpled tufts of hair and ran in rivulets down the bare chest, and Kaid decided it didn’t matter.

“Stiffness,” Kaid put a hand to his companion’s chin, “is another thing.” He ran a thumb-claw carefully over the other man’s lower lip, then slid his fingers into the brown hair that’d been subdued by water. He fisted it close to the nape of the neck and tugged meaningfully downward. “See to it.”

His companion’s solicitous voice became a needy whine as he followed rills of water down Kaid’s chest with his tongue. Kaid’s handhold remained light, tugging only when he thought the ifrit was spending too much time on the journey and not enough getting to his destination. When his companion had finally settled on his knees, hands on Kaid’s hips, Kaid’s fingers relaxed their grip and splayed out over the back of the man’s head, guiding.

Hot mouth and exploratory tongue enveloped him. Orange eyes blinked rapidly through runnels of water streaming into them from shower-matted hair. Kaid waited for the hands on his hips to prickle him with claws but none came, and he pushed harder against the back of the head seeing to his stiffness.

And harder again. Smooth muscles at the back of the ifrit’s throat struggled to expel him even as the ifrit himself refused to signal and end to it.

Still no claws. Kaid’s hips jerked forward.

Wet gagging subsided down to the odd, flat sound of air squeezed between flesh and more flesh separated by thin lubricant.

Claws pricked. Kaid pulled his hand away.

His ifrit companion reared back, releasing him by mouth and hand, resting on all fours as he coughed and whimpered at the submerged tiles between Kaid’s feet.

Kaid offered no encouragement. He waited.

Several more coughs saw the ifrit rising again and renewing his hold on Kaid’s hips, licking, seeking, and diving forward. Kaid’s hand returned to the back of his head.

Another. The kneeling man seemed determined to bludgeon the back of his throat - and beyond - into submission, with or without Kaid’s help. Clawpricks led to a pause and another round of half-choking recovery on all fours.

And again. Again. And once more, this time accompanied by a tightening, the rise of release. Kaid stopped applying pressure to the back of the ifrit’s head and simply rested his hand there.

“Do you want it?”

The hands at his hips slid back and down, gripping the backs of his thighs, pulling him forward.

It was answer enough.

Kaid released a growl to the shower’s ceiling and released himself into the ifrit’s mouth.

And looked down.

For a moment, just a moment, he’d had to bite his lip to prevent a name escaping him.

In that moment, as he’d looked down, there’d been no orange eyes, no shower-saturated brown hair, no lithe, acrobatic body kneeling in front of him, staring up at him with naked need.

The body had been muscular, powerfully built. The hair black and long, curled heavily with the weight of water in it. An artfully-cut robe had been plastered to the chest by water. The eyes meeting his had been red.

And not at all submissive.  
  
He blinked slowly.

The momentary vision had passed.

His ifrit companion sat back. He ran a finger from the bottom of his chin and into his mouth, throat still working a swallow, grinning. “Better?”

Kaid nodded, strange of mood and lacking in full satisfaction. “For the moment. Wait for me in bed.”

The other man rose unsteadily to his feet, struggling visibly to regain the same easy, languid grace he’d employed when he’d come in. He turned toward the door.

“Wait.”

The ifrit turned back, curiosity - and perhaps a little disbelief - written on his face.

Kaid lifted his hand, extending index and middle finger together. “While you’re waiting, you have freedom to use two fingers on yourself.” He smirked. “You can tease yourself or ready yourself.”

The other man blinked at him, puzzled, then grew heavy-lidded in understanding. “Or?”

“Or. Not both.”

It was the ifrit’s turn to bite his lower lip. He turned, and made his way out of the shower stall, moving the curtain just long enough to disappear behind it.

Kaid leaned back, letting water slide down his front and drip from now-hypersensitive parts, and wondered.

He still didn’t remember his current bed companion’s name, but he’d nearly shouted one as the rush of release had consumed him.

Almost. The name still sat somewhere in his mouth, patient.

_Menar._


End file.
